black swan
by SebonzaMitsuki27
Summary: Shuuhei, Momo, Izuru. AU. Crumpled paper wings no longer take flight.
1. part one

_Shadows all around you as you surface from the dark  
Emerging from the gentle grip of night's unfolding arms  
Darkness, darkness everywhere, do you feel all alone?  
The subtle grace of gravity, the heavy weight of stone._

**You Are The Moon**, The Hush Sound

* * *

i.

It's a dream. A simple, recurring dream.

Bubbles glide from her mouth, and her breath makes them explode. Gentle hands are filled with yore, forever closed, forever unseen. Lifting them to her mouth, her eyes catch a glimpse of light; neon stars trapped in eclipse.

Palms unfold, soft like rosebuds; and these birds made of paper flutter beating hearts.

And every single one of them drowns in a lilac lake.

ii.

She meets him on the island, chubby cheeks apple red. Silent and awkward, he helps her up, slanted eyes averting eye-contact.

But that doesn't make his hand any less welcome. Or warm.

And when she sees him, out of the corner of her wide eyes, beyond the horizon of the setting sun, his eyes are blue than the seawater; hair burnished red.

iii.

Limbs grow, lithe and slender.

Kind of like a snake, except not. More like a tree, branches stretching, flowers blossoming. Rustic nature, taking course.

Wind blows, holding quavers and minims in the air. So she dances, hands entwined with his, lets the music flow… and leads them straight to the third.

iv.

Origami, haiku, piano concerts.

Friendship slides into place; paper skin their common link.

Smiles, laughs and kisses crease into a familiar pattern, an easy motion of rhythm.

v.

"You think it's a crane? Or maybe a swan?"

The paper bird is fragile in her hands, quivering ever so slightly beneath her round face.

If it's a swan, then she'll paint it black in memory of the ugly ducking, a reminder of hope, and her favourite fairy tale.

If it's a crane, then she'll place it on her shelf, and contend with a different animal to fold and bring to life next time.

vi.

She does not want to believe in a legend that sounds so beautiful in poetry and lullabies.

vii.

Willow trees, full of grace, are planted in their island.

Sun-starved and happy, the three of them lie on their backs, their carefree worries thrown into the breeze.

For now they sleep and let their grins spread into the sky.

viii.

It's only a cough. She tries to shake away their concern, as a rose thorn pricks her finger and slides through her hands.

Only a cough that won't go away.

And in the darkness, blood stains the paper bird that she has tried to free.

ix.

Her hands fumble with the latest project, untarnished and untouched.

Wonders if it's too late.

x.

The place to return to; their happiest memories.

She walks to the island, feet as light as air; warm sunbeams melting through water.

And all around her, paper cranes fly, mute swans singing.

* * *

Disclaimer: I do not own bleach.


	2. part two

_You don't see what you possess, a beauty calm and clear  
It floods the sky and blurs the darkness like a chandelier  
All the light that you posses is skewed by lakes and seas  
The shattered surface, so imperfect, is all that you believe._

**You Are The Moon**, The Hush Sound

* * *

x.

They fly in numbers.

Scattered, torn and made of tears;

Swans that mourn one song.

ix.

Quiet forever,

Ivory blemishing grey,

She glides to a dream.

viii.

Roses mean nothing.

Signify blood on white clouds.

Mottled on strange birds.

vii.

Seeds covered in dirt.

Muddy hands, windswept: look up.

Smile, watching clouds float.

vi.

Spindly handwriting,

Black blots, shredded on the spot,

Crumpled in heartbreak.

v.

"You think it's a crane?"

White wings sing so soundlessly.

"Or maybe a swan?"

iv.

Words and hands and hearts.

Pretty pleasure part red lips,

Nearly _I love you._

iii.

Sweet piano notes

Curved with age, her hand in his,

A new friend is found.

ii.

Clambering sand-mud,

Violet breaks the blue sky,

Reaching for the green.

i.

Yew. Willow. Elder.

The choice of a blank canvas,

Bring an island life.


	3. part three

_I will bring a mirror, so silver, so exact  
So precise and so pristine, a perfect pane of glass  
I will set the mirror up to face the blackened sky  
You will see your beauty every moment that you rise._

**You Are The Moon**, The Hush Sound

* * *

iii.

When he looks up, they are there. Standing on the doorway, as if they've been waiting there forever, listening for the music to overflow into their very pores, intertwined hands the sole thing connecting them to reality.

Both of them walk gracefully towards him, not quite a saunter, but a stumble of self-consciousness and awkward comedy; a beautiful beat of their own.

Maybe that's all it takes—or her widened smiled, and or the boy's friendly eyes, nearly hidden in a mop yellow.

But all the same, he follows the melody they weave.

ix.

Once he hears the news, it's hard to stop the tears.

But he has to.

Or else the haiku writer will write a thousand tragedies, every single word smeared with loss.

v.

"You think it's a crane? Or maybe a swan?"

He believes in the legend of origami cranes, that the wish that comes with the last will be true.

Maybe not all of it. Maybe just some of it.

But if the idea is so beautiful, then maybe it definitely will.

i.

It's just a melody that he can't resist.

To hear music play beneath his palms – let it fly so easily.

Notes of black and white seem so more amicable than people of flesh and blood.

It takes an age for him to look up, and hear the sound of feet and rustling murmur. Or see such a bright smile.

vii.

The boat is left on the shore. The sand slides over their warm hands, embossed in darkness.

It's taken forever to convince the poet, but they've finally convinced him to grow a willow tree.

Later, teasing remarks and playful banter, when they flop to the ground, everything passes them by.

iv.

He sees it in the corridor: the confession that seems comical from the sidelines.

After much teasing, it finally happens: the poet has worked up the nerve.

But he doesn't relent from his masterpiece, the tone ever so gentle, until their kiss is over.

And all he can do is clap.

x.

He tries—

Oh, he tries so beautifully, blurring legends and loss and myth and magic together.

But he never reaches a thousand.

viii.

He steals a rose from the poet's garden. The poet. It's almost an affectionate nickname: his skill in one art, and not his area of forte.

It's not the same as romance, deep and true and binding, when he gives her the red flower.

But it's the same as friendship, his love for her deep and true.

She smiles so prettily, before she starts to cough, her hands letting go and holding onto crimson white.

ii.

He wonders, as the notes play so easily, what he is waiting for.

vi.

The fragile bond has broken.

And yet they persevere, despite her rejections and pleas.

Never giving up; never leaving her alone; never letting her go.

* * *

**a/n.** _Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed._


End file.
